


and the baroque is over

by clumsygyrl (thegirlthatisclumsy)



Series: baroque [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-17
Updated: 2009-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 16:45:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlthatisclumsy/pseuds/clumsygyrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>many inspirations from my actual prompt lyrics from the 2lineschallenge (“you can talk to me, ‘cause I’m a hot topic”) to my silly aspirations of making pete wentz an actual “writer” to wanting to make gale happy.  the last the most important of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the baroque is over

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from an ernest hemingway quote. “prose is architecture, not interior decoration, and the baroque is over.” also, i have tried to catch all the possible mistakes, but if you find one please let me know!

_When writing a novel a writer should create living people; people not characters. A character is a caricature. –ernest hemingway_

3 of 3 people found the following review helpful:  
4 out of 5 stars **A good history lesson of Honorable Mention** , March 13, 1998  
By **Willie Sussman "pwfan1"** (Great Neck, NY USA) -  See all my reviews

For those who have heard of Pete Wentz’s tales of the planet of the dark moon, this would be a good book to start with. It gives a great synopsis of sorts of a great many of the previous books in the series, and while it's not a real substitute for those books, you'll at least have an idea of what's gone on in all those previous books/series.  
The plot is something straight out of the school of pulp fiction, and sounds like something Wentz has done before - but that doesn't detract from the phenomenal quality of the writing, something that's been sorely lacking in the more recent E.O.W.Y.G. novels. Still, this novel made me want to go back and reread even those! Who knows - maybe I'll change my mind about them after reading this one.

3 of 3 people found the following review helpful:  
4 out of 5 stars **Enjoyable, but Complicated** , August 7, 2000  
By **Ms. Rosie Duranne** (Iowa) - See all my reviews  
 **This review is from: T.T.Y.G.: Calm Before the Storm (a gay science fiction hardcover)**  
Do you love science fiction? Don't mind gay heroes or a complicated plot? Then you should read this novel. I really enjoyed it and hope to read more by Pete Wentz. There was an earlier version of Take This T…, but Wentz has rewritten it and added more gay characters. I haven't read the first version, but I like this one.

C.B.S. is another world, or a religion, or just a book - depending on who you ask. Whatever it really is, it's a threat to the survival of the planet where Werdna and his family live.

 

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful:  
5 out of 5 stars **Pete Wentz's "Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying" a must read** , September 29, 2004  
By **Michelle Annahem** \-  See all my reviews   
A uniquely constructed verbal deck of cards, "Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying" drags the reader into the violent, bloody, desperate world of gambling, vampires, and Changers. A must read.

14 of 16 people found the following review helpful:  
5 out of 5 stars **wonderfully poetic, dark, and full of suspense a review of Infinity On High: Golden** , December 22, 2006  
By **Cleo C. Tumnis** –  See all my reviews

What would you do if your family were massacred? Wentz explores this question in a breakneck-paced, character-driven, neo-gothic-style story that doesn't seem to follow any of the rules he’s set before. What you expect to have as the climax of the novel comes in the first quarter of the book, making you thirsty to see what he's got up his sleeve. While mostly dark, there are bright spots of humor that are truly funny and sharp and lines that border on poetic and fantasical. Two or three scenes are stomach turningly gory, and the voice that haunts Gabriel creates some disturbing images. Ryland and Alex's constant bickering and sniping had me snickering. (I have to side with Alex and say that you can't use 'impugn' like that.) There are enough literary references to satisfy any bookworm, but the novel never feels heavy with them. People who enjoyed Bob Bryar's The Dogs Are Drummers will find themselves drawn into the dark side of Willemetten. The ending is vaguely reminiscent of Kafka’s Metamorphosis, yet much more satisfying. What more could you ask for?

 

oOoOo

> The thing was that Frank had always thought that he had bad luck. He wasn’t destitute or starving or even unsightly in the looks department, but he swore he had the worse luck of any human being on this planet. His mother told him that if there was a hole that Frank would fall in it or if there were a crack in the sidewalk he’d trip over it. Most days he took the turns in luck in stride.
> 
> His life wasn’t bad. It really wasn’t.
> 
> He had a decent job and a decent, if boring, relationship with his girlfriend of many years and he was settled.
> 
> All these things were probably why he wasn’t prepared to open his hall closet and find a man standing there shoving a dagger in his face.
> 
> Frank was pretty sure this topped the bad luck Top 40.
> 
> “Who the fuck are you?”

oOoOo

“Who the fuck are you?”

Patrick blinked and held up the paper print out in front of him like a shield. This was the twenty third interview and application hunt he’d been on in the last two weeks. He was down to about thirty bucks in his checking account and probably something that even negative numbers couldn’t account for in his savings. If his financial aid check didn’t clear, he’d probably be homeless by the end of next week. He was pretty sure he had the worst luck of anyone else on this planet.

“Are you deaf?”

“Er, sorry. I’m Patrick? I’m here for the interview?” Patrick ventured and held out the paper again up to the peephole. “I’m looking for a Mr. Pan.”

“Password?”

Patrick had been on some intense interviews in the last couple of weeks and all sorts of testing. This by far was already ranking up there with the weirdest. “I’ll be your Wendy?” Patrick said reading from the email print out. Reading from the email saved him from possibly rolling his eyes at the door. As doors went, it was a pretty impressive one with reinforced steel hinges. It kind of looked like something the BatCave would have on its back door.

The stylized bat skull doorknocker was a little weird though.

Patrick was still wondering how all the rhinestones stayed in when the door swung open. He plastered his best “Hire Me Please” smile and wondered for the nth time if he should just ditch the hat. He was still hedging bets that hat won over bald spot when it came to first impressions. He was starting to revise this notion with the actual lack of return on interviews. Then again it was also possible that Patrick just sucked and no one wanted to hire a failed business major from an Actual University who was now a struggling musician and music major at a community college. “Hi. I’m--.”

“Patrick. Right. Come in. Here’s the application,” the guy said handing him a thick stack of pages.

Patrick took it and stepped in when the guy waved him inside. “Thanks, I--.”

“Call me, Pete. Sit down. Not there. That’s the dog’s seat. Do you want something to drink while you start on that? I’ve got, uh. Actually I have no idea. Water probably. Possibly some Red Bull. No beer. Hemmy no. Stop,” Pete said looking at Patrick with a tilt of his head. “You do like dogs, right?”

“Right. I mean, yes. I mean, they’re fine,” Patrick said sitting down and wincing. He pulled a slobbery squeaky thing out from under his ass. “Water’s fine.”

Pete nodded and snapped his fingers at the dog who, if Patrick didn’t know any better, looked bored. “Stay Hemmy. Be nice.”

Patrick sat and looked down at the papers then craned his head back to look at Pete. Five foot nothing short, and that was something coming from Patrick, dark hair and eyes, dressed in ridiculously tight jeans and what looked like a paint splattered t-shirt that would have looked more appropriate on a twelve year old girl rather than a, what Patrick would guess, guy in his late 20’s. The clattering and crashing in the kitchen seemed to be a lot of noise just for a glass of water. Patrick flipped open the first page of the application then the next and then the next.

“Your application is 45 pages long and requires a drawing?” Patrick asked looking up when Pete came back.

“An artistic rendering of your favorite literary figure, sure,” Pete said and grinned at Patrick.

Patrick wondered if it were normal to have teeth that big and white. He also wondered if Pete was somehow deranged. “O-kay.”

Pete picked Hemmy up from the floor. “I have markers,” Pete offered and Patrick wondered if he was imagining the dog laughing at him.

Even if he was, Patrick would not have blamed him.

oOoOo

> Frank had no idea what the hell was going on. He’d woken up to go to work. He’d had a nice shower, jerked off, put on his jeans, and was going to go to the closet to look for his other sneaker.
> 
> He wasn’t expecting some guy with weird clothes, a weird smell, and a fucking dagger to be there. Especially one that was speaking what Frank thought might be Klingon.
> 
> “I repeat, who the fuck are you?” Frank had managed to back up. He’d cleared the back of his couch and was holding up a beer bottle from last night. It wasn’t broken…yet.
> 
> The guy tilted his head as if he’d never before heard English. Frank swallowed hard and backed up a step and his ass hit the edge of the bookshelf. He swore when he heard the stack of cds he’d left there clatter to the floor. The guy stepped up, circling around the couch and eyeing Frank with more curiosity than with intent like he had earlier. The dagger was still out in his hand, but lowered.
> 
> Frank jumped a little again when the guy cleared his throat. He didn’t lower his bottle. This was Jersey. He’d heard people got killed with and for less. “Look. Just leave okay? I won’t call the cops or anything.” That was a total lie. He was going to call the cops as soon as the freaky dude left.
> 
> There was a faint quirking of the guy’s lips as if he knew Frank was lying.
> 
> Frank grimaced and tightened his fingers on the bottleneck.
> 
> The guy cleared his throat and held out his free hand. “I need your help. Please.” 

oOoOo

“…So, I tell him I need help and he’s all waving his hands and shit. High as a kite, right? Right. And he’s talking about a fucking camel. As if he’s ever seen one before, but it’s symbolic. Who the fuck knows. He’s talking and talking and talking about this symbolism of the death and dying of youth. I’m sitting there trying to see if I’ve actually died from boredom. I mean, really. Seriously, a camel right? Who has camels in the future, but whatever. So he’s talking about a camel and I realize the fucker actually means the big ass animals they used in Star Wars. On the ice planet. What the fuck were they called again…”

“Ton tons,” Patrick said without looking up from page 23 and question 19a.

“Right. So, he was going on and on and he wanted to write some fucking Star Wars rip off…”

Pete had not stopped talking. Patrick had tried to time the guy but it was no use. He just kept going on and on and on about shit that Patrick either had no idea about or things that Patrick did not want to know about. The application was equal parts crazy, ridiculous, and stupid. Most of the interview process seemed to be Pete talking about going to writing conventions and meeting all the other fucked in the head writers in the “circle”. Patrick had learned that the world of Young Adult Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers was a pretty small (and incestuous one if the clues that Patrick was picking up were any indication) and tight. He’d also learned a lot about his maybe future employer.

Pete had not graduated from Depaul but had done the writing thing on a whim. He’s always been making up stories in his head. He once fancied himself to be a songwriter but after one too many failed bands in the Chicago scene, Pete gave it up for an Actual Education. (Patrick soon learned after that monologue that Pete’s parents had given him a choice: college and continued living expenses or whatever the hell else he wanted to do but on his own dime. Pete ended up making up a third option of becoming a writer and just living at home till his parents kicked him out.) Pete got an honorary degree from Depaul and a couple of other universities now. Patrick learned pretty early on in the interview that Pete was a Big Deal. First published at barely twenty and churning out books every year since then. He has hit the best sellers list with at least a couple of books from each series. Patrick was pretty sure it was because either the guy was an actual alien or an android.

He was pretty enough to be either. Or both.

“…And so I told him to fuck off. It was pretty sweet,” Pete said finally taking a sip of his own mixture of water and Red Bull.

Patrick nodded and he flipped to the next page of the packet. “So, you told him to fuck off when he asked you out for a drink because you didn’t feel like listening to him retell you the story of Anakin and Obi Wan but with stupid names?”

Pete nodded and he sat forward with a big smile.

Patrick thought the smile was a little creepy if he was being completely honest.

“So, you should finish that so I can pretend to look it over before I tell you you’re hired.”

Patrick blinked at Pete. Then blinked again. He flipped to the last page and drew an empty box and wrote, “The Invisible Man.”

Pete’s answering laugh and punch in the arm ended Patrick’s job hunt and began what Patrick would guess a really weird but interesting career.

oOoOo

> Frank sat there in his living room now with midmorning light filtering in weak and a mellow gold against his carpet. It was like every other fucking day in his boring life, but here was a guy in a fucking cape sitting and telling him about how he was on a quest.
> 
> The freaky guy’s name was Gerard. Frank was told over a glass of water and some Pringles. The Pringles had made Gerard laugh. It wasn’t necessarily the weird Ren Faire costume or even the weird accent or even the dagger that made Frank’s eyes go a little sideways, but the fact that Gerard had fucking conjured up his own glass for drinking.
> 
> “…And everything seems similar to where I have left. It feels similar, the earth and the sky, but the buildings are different. The feeling of the beings here feel… incorrect,” Gerard said shaking his head. “Everything seems where it should be but a beat off. As if there’s a different coat on the same person.” He looked over at Frank with that same half bemused half sad smile. “I suppose the Spellweaver had some kind of humor that I had not known before.”
> 
> Frank spread his hands out flat on his thighs. He wasn’t surprised by the sweat but the lack of shake was a little amusing. “You’re telling me that you’re from here. This exact moment in time, but another reality?”
> 
> Gerard tilted his head then nodded. “Something like that yes. There are some things I can not tell you, but there is.” He paused and laughed, rusty and sad as if he’d lost the ability to hear or use it. “There is a lot that I still can not tell you, but I will tell you what I can.”
> 
> “Oh, good. The exposition,” Frank muttered and passed a hand over his eyes.
> 
> Gerard chuckled again and nodded, dark hair falling lank and heavy over his eyes. “Yes, quite.” He took another sip of water grimacing a bit either at the taste or the need to tell his story. “Tell me first. Do you happen to know a Michael Way?” The question was soft and mild, but Frank heard something else in the question.
> 
> Frank nodded after a moment. “Yeah, I went school with a guy named Michael, Mikey Way. Nice guy. Lost touch, but yeah. Why?”
> 
> “And he was an only child?” Gerard asked looking into the depth of his goblet. The light reflected and seemed to be trapped and muted within the facets of the jewels inlaid along the sides.
> 
> “Yeah, how’d you know?” Frank asked frowning. “He part of your story? He connected to this shit of why you’re here?”
> 
> Gerard paused and shook his head after a beat. “No, just. Checking similarities.” The smile was forced and brittle but he didn’t give Frank time to ask another question and started on his story. “In my place it is closing in on the Harvest when the moon is big and yellow and the nights are turning colder and colder. In my place there is also a war raging, one that has been in motion since before I was born, before my parents and grandparents were born,” he said softly and his thumb running in a slow circle over one of the reddest gems. “I have lost them all because of this war. This place has none of the terrors that the war is fighting. If I were to hazard a guess, your nightmares that have become myth and the monsters that are fantastic but unbelievable are naught but stories here but are truth in my place.” The laugh was more angry this time. “I spent many nights studying the other Places. There are many stories of this place you call home. We often think that this place is nothing more than a fantasy.” He cleared his throat again, something that Frank was beginning to understand as a nervous habit. “These things, monsters as you call them, are real where I come from. I imagine they are real here as well, just hidden. There are not many things that are hidden in my place,” Gerard stared out the window as a shadow flickered across the pane. “The Changers, vampires, and the fey, and the mage workers are all real in my place. The demons are also there. Angels as well. Or what you call them here are also there. We work together for the most part against the...”
> 
> The silence stretched long and thick between them.
> 
> “The what?” Frank asked, unable to help himself. He was mostly sure that Gerard was unhinged, but the story was fascinating.
> 
> “The Afterever,” Gerard said breathing slowly and letting the word go as if afraid to loosen his hold on it.
> 
> “Oh,” Frank said as if that explained everything when it really didn’t. “Is it a monster?” In Gerard’s explanation, Frank had thought it would be pretty cool to live in a world where werewolves and shit were real.
> 
> “It’s Nothing,” Gerard said not looking at Frank again. “It is the Death to Places. It kills existences.” There was something about the finality of those words, the cold that seemed to take over the sounds that made Frank’s skin prickle and his hair to stand on its end.
> 
> “Oh.” This time Frank understood.
> 
> This time Frank even believed. 

oOoOo

Working for Pete, if one was to believe that it could be called that, was odd. Patrick’s first day consisted of sorting through Pete’s fan mail on the computer and within the four postal bins that were sitting in one of the rooms of the apartment. Pete seemed to spend a lot of Patrick’s first day following Patrick around and making his own verbal notes about how he liked things done. At first Patrick thought that he should possibly take notes, but it soon because apparent that Pete was mostly talking to fill the silence. Patrick didn’t mind so much. The cadence was comforting; he could find a rhythm in it. Pete liked to list things for Patrick and Patrick, since he could file the lists and instructions away with their own signature beat and melody fragment, could recall them pretty much verbatim.

Pete thought he was a godsend. Or at least that’s what he told Patrick.

Several times.

Within the first two hours of Patrick being there.

“How did you know where to find my cereal bowls?”

“You can seriously make peanut butter sandwiches like that?

“How did you get Hemmy to sit still for so long?”

It would be amusing. It would be except that Pete was always right over his shoulder commenting or dictating. Patrick would have tuned him out (he did have a brother and a shitload of experience drowning out rambling dialogue – his friend Joe was a stoner who liked to wax poetic about the virtues of taco chips and Jimi Hendrix.) except that he figured as Pete was paying him a kind of ludicrous amount of money to act as personal assistant/housekeeper/dog minder that he should at least pretend to pay attention.

If Patrick were a better judge of character, he’d say that Pete was lonely.

Patrick wasn’t that great a judge of character. Well, it wasn’t that he was a bad judge of personal character, it was just that people often times didn’t make sense to him. He was a nice guy and had friends, but he failed to pick up on nuances if they didn’t have to do with a bridge, hook, or chords. He would feel bad about that, but there hadn’t been another person in his life that he had cared more about than Music. Capital letters and bold print. He’d tried to follow what his teachers and his parents had told him that while he was a talented musician, there were certain avenues of the progressive and modern music scene that didn’t just respect talent. He had to have a package.

Patrick had been through enough of that shit in high school. Now he had a significantly softer belly and bigger spot of scalp showing through his hair. He wasn’t oblivious to that and he wasn’t naïve, but he wasn’t giving it up. Business wasn’t going to do that for him.

He thought that if he was going to rebel and give up all kinds of luxuries after his parents gently cut him off (“It’s a learning experience Patrick. You’ll come to your senses. We’ll always be here for you once you smarten up.”) to go out on his own. His father had offered to let him do music as a minor and do his music thing as a hobby.

Patrick had quietly and respectfully told him to fuck the hell off.

“…And so then she told me to fuck off,” Pete said sadly. “I don’t get it.” His head was on the floor next to Patrick’s thigh. Patrick had learned that sorting Pete’s mail (regular this time with bills and such) was easier that way. He was fully automating Pete’s bill payments to go through the online system. He felt weird using the signature stamp that Pete had thrown at him. He was pretty sure that Pete was just supposed to use it for book signings and not shit to pay off his electricity. “I mean, I treat them well. We spent time together. What did I do wrong?”

Patrick looked down at Pete and eyed him. He’d been working for Pete for about a month and while he liked the guy, he kind of rolled his eyes a lot at the guy’s absolute ability to know so much about other people and even certain parts of himself, but be so oblivious to things that were right in front of his face. “Well, from what you’ve told me. You treated her like you did the other girls. And made her pick up after you, do your errands, and all the shit you pay me to do.”

Pete stared at him blankly. Upside down and it was still kind of endearing.

“You treated her like your personal assistant instead of a girlfriend, jackass,” Patrick said dryly. He’d also learned within that first week that Pete appreciated honesty. And heard it more clearly when Patrick attached an insult to the end. What that said about Pete’s psyche, Patrick wasn’t even going to try and figure out.

Pete looked ready to disagree then shut his mouth with a snap of his very white and bright teeth. He sat up and scrubbed a hand through his hair looking out at the far wall where earlier that week Patrick came back to find Pete and his friend Travis playing a very stylized version of tic tac toe with spray paint and paint markers. Even Patrick had to admit that it looked cool, but then again he didn’t know art for shit. “You think?”

“Yeah. Sorry,” Patrick said because even he wasn’t that much of an asshole to give Pete insight without cushioning it a little.

Pete bit his lip and looked back at Patrick away from the smears of paint. Patrick felt bad for a moment when Pete just looked lost. Then the look went away, face falling into familiar closed off but fake open ways. “Ahh, so her sleeping with another one of my exes in our bed was still a shitty thing to do?”

Patrick snorted and shoved a stack of bills into Pete’s chest. “Yeah. It was. She was a bitch for that part.”

“Good to know.”

oOoOo

> The past few days had been crazy. Frank’s job had called and demanded to know where he was, but Frank couldn’t and didn’t have an explanation for them. He lied badly about being sick and got reamed out by his boss for a full five minutes before his boss told him that if he wasn’t in the next day to forget about coming back.
> 
> That had been two days ago.
> 
> Frank couldn’t tell what it was about Gerard that had him so focused on this goal. It was quest maybe, but Frank knew that he had to help. There wasn’t a choice really. He knew that he just had to do it. His girlfriend had called the day that Gerard showed up and it was as if the entire world had spun out of control. She told him that she had hoped to get his answering machine, but she felt as if things hadn’t been working out between them.
> 
> She was going to France to work on herself.
> 
> Frank had stared at the phone and hung it up while she was still talking about café au lait and the Seine. It was like some surreal Cameron Crowe movie. Gerard had been going through the channels on his tv and Frank had just been broken up with while a mage sat and watched Maury Povich.
> 
> Gerard seemed insistent that he find what he need to get back to his own reality so that he could save it. Frank had no idea what part he had to play in the plan, but Gerard was insistent that there was a reason the spellwork had sent him to Frank. Gerard got cagey when trying to explain. There were a lot more unanswered questions than answered.
> 
> It would explain why he was standing in front of Mikey Way’s house. The internet told them that this is where his folks lived. Frank had been there once, dropping Mikey off for a weekend. His mom was nice if not a little weird in that typical Jersey way that moms happened to be.
> 
> Gerard seemed more nervous than before, his hand closing and opening around the hilt of his dagger. Frank made him wear one of his hoodies and jeans. Gerard had looked a little put off by the pants, but the sweatshirt he seemed to take to immediately. The dagger was hidden within the big pocket and Frank really hoped Mrs. Way didn’t think they were there to rob her. He’d hate for that to get back to his own mom.
> 
> “Relax. You’re not meeting the pope,” Frank muttered when Gerard started as the door opened. “Good evening Mrs. Way. I don’t know if you remember me, but--.”
> 
> “Little Frankie Iero is that you?” Came the response through a haze of Marlboro smoke. “Get your ass in here. Who’s your handsome little friend? Boyfriend?”
> 
> Frank looked over at Gerard and smirked expecting to see something similar on Gerard’s face. What he saw was a little surprising, Gerard was pale and almost heartsick looking.
> 
> “L-let’s go in,” Gerard whispered reaching for Frank’s hand and pulling him into the darkened hall. The walk ended at the far side of the house in a bright yellow kitchen and a chipped formica table. There were cups of coffee so hot that their steamed battled the constant stream of smoke from both Frank and Donna’s cigarettes. Gerard could not seem to stop looking at Donna. When Frank kicked him under the table, Gerard shifted his gaze to the pictures in the hall, framed and stretching far back into the family room.
> 
> Donna Way, as she announced to both Gerard and Frank, was on her way to bingo so if they had something to say they best get on with it. “I’m going to win that jackpot this week, boys. Just you wait.” She says laughing, scratching and wheezing out more smoke than sound.
> 
> “We’re uh. Well, actually. I’m not entirely sure why we’re here,” Frank said looking over at Gerard.
> 
> “I, that is. Could you tell us where Michael is?” Gerard asked twisting his hands slightly in his pocket.
> 
> Donna sighed and looked over at Frank. “He changed a lot, Frankie. I haven’t,” she swallowed, a little smile brittle and sharp. “Left. He left about a year ago. Just picked up and left. I… he. We got the notice. His dad and I. He.” She reached over and patted Frank’s arm then tightened her fingers slightly. She took a big sip of coffee as if to steady herself. “Overdose, Frankie. I didn’t know it had gotten that bad. He was always my baby. I thought. He’d.” She wiped her eyes smearing the black of her mascara. “Alcohol and pills. He was so sad for a long time. He always told me he felt as if there was a piece missing out of him. I didn’t know what to do. Except love him as hard as I could, but. It wasn’t enough I guess.”
> 
> Gerard stared hard at the top of the table then looked up, expression fierce and tight. “I know you did, mo-. Madam. He knew it. But sometimes the emptiness is too great and the temptation to feel nothing at all even greater.” He reached over and touched his hand to Donna’s hand. “He died knowing that you would have taken the emptiness if you could have.”
> 
> Frank’s breath caught, unable to look from the brutal and clear sincerity in Gerard’s words.
> 
> Donna seemed to sag at that and she laughed. Her arm turned, fingers closing in around Gerard’s hand. “It doesn’t make it hurt any less, but it makes it a little more bearable.” She looked Gerard in the eye and nodded. “You’ve lost a lot haven’t you, honey?”
> 
> Gerard nodded expression and eyes solemn. “I have.”
> 
> Donna took a long drag from her cigarette and the quiet wasn’t necessarily peaceful but it felt less choking than the noise had been before.
> 
> “Was Michael an only child?” Gerard asked carefully again looking down. This time he focused on the loose curl of Donna’s fingers around his own.
> 
> Donna stared out the kitchen window at the drapes with the funny little skeleton print of the fabric, perfect for the season. “There was another little baby boy before Mikey. Died too.” She looked back at Gerard and Frank. “Lost both my boys.”
> 
> Gerard flinched and he let his hand rest in Donna’s smaller one. “They love you very much.”
> 
> “I hope so.”
> 
> Frank didn’t know where to look feeling somehow outside of whatever circle they’d created.
> 
> “I know.” Gerard’s words were quiet. When Donna turned back and she and Gerard shared a smile, Frank realized that they not only shared similar loss but the same angles in their smiles. 

oOoOo

“Trick, yo. Tricky Tiki Tembo!” Pete yelled from the kitchen. “Do you want your nasty vegetarian tofu spread or delicious turkey?”

Patrick mentally gave Pete the finger. Then he physically did it because Pete was pretty fluent in sign language of that caliber. “You’re not allowed in the kitchen, remember?” Patrick had caught Pete trying to roast marshmallows on the gas range half awake and using a regular fork bare handed. He rather liked getting a paycheck and if Pete damaged his hands he couldn’t sign them. (Patrick had sent the stamp in for repairs – down the trash compactor shoot after he had found Pete trying to stamp his ass while Patrick was going down for a much deserved nap.)

“It’s my kitchen,” Pete said dropping a bagel with tofutti on it next to Patrick’s hand. Patrick was getting rid of all the spam and adaware on Pete’s computer. Patrick would have to increase his number of post-its with the merits of not going to porn sites because it made Patrick’s head explode with all the shit he had to clean up after Pete did that.

“I know it’s your kitchen. It’s also me as your second contact for when you burn your eyebrows off,” Patrick said poking a bite of the bagel into his mouth.

Pete laid his head on top of Patrick’s and grinned at him. Patrick could see his stupid too big grin reflection of the monitor. “You love me Pattycakes. You do.”

“I can love you when I rip off your arms,” Patrick warned when Pete poked at Patrick’s belly.

Pete snorted and threw himself into the big squashy chair next to the computer that was Pete’s favorite place to sit (annoy Patrick, Patrick said many a time) and watch Patrick work. While Pete was exasperating, Patrick was kind of fond of the guy. Even under all the asshole layers, there were a lot of them, Patrick could see a good guy. Pete was thoughtful about his friends and loved his parents more than Patrick thought was a little normal. Patrick got a fat paycheck for basically making sure that Pete didn’t die and his life was running as smooth as it could.

“So, when is it that you actually write, man?” Patrick asked after he’d finished running a virus scan and installed another spyware blocker. He licked his fingers and sucked the cream cheese off his fingers.

Pete seemed to be preoccupied with watching Patrick clean himself off before he answered. “See, well. That’s kind of the problem. I’ve got the stories in here,” he tapped his forehead. “Just getting them out. I just need a sharp push or poke in the right direction. To let it out.”

“So, your next novel is going to be like popping a zit?” Patrick said and spun his chair around to look at the clock. He got up and as he figured, Pete followed. Patrick bent down to put kibble in Hemmy’s dish and pushed his foot at Hemmy’s side so that he could hide the medicine in a chunk of cheese and hid it under the dry dog food. It was a game that Patrick and Hemmy played. Hemmy pretended to take the meds and Patrick didn’t get too grossed out when Hemmy left the wet pill next to his feet an hour later. It was just because Hemmy wanted an extra piece of cheese.

It was kind of funny that Hemmy was a little more straightforward about some shit that his master was.

Patrick was well aware that Pete talked. And talked. And talked about a lot of shit, but if he felt no need to tell something about himself then there was a lot of dodging and being charming. Patrick just called him on it and moved on. He figured his job was just to make sure that his employer didn’t die.

That plan got stuck a little when Patrick started to care what happened to Pete.

“Gross, Patrick. Gross,” Pete said and smirked. Patrick knew that particular phrase was going to end up in an interview. “So, I heard from someone that you’ve got finals next week.”

Patrick rolled his eyes and set the food bowl down and Hemmy nearly knocked him over trying to get to it. “Joe talks too much.” He nodded. “Yeah, musical composition and Comp Lit. I already turned in my final project for sound engineering.”

Pete nudged Patrick with his food and smiled at him. Patrick knew that smile. “What do you want?”

“I want to hear some of it,” Pete asked.

“Fuck you. No you don’t.” Patrick rinsed out Hemmy’s water bowl and filled it up with clean water and scratched the back of his neck. Patrick had spent an afternoon of sort and alphabetizing all of Pete’s cds telling Pete about his failed attempt at being responsible and his business degree pursuit and the fall out with his parents and all the joys of living on financial checks that gave you enough to go to school but not to eat. Even the joke about him standing to lose a few pounds just got Pete to glare at him. The entire story was even too lame for a Lifetime movie. He wasn’t starving on the street and he had a place to live. He had a more than great job with some cushy benefits of cable tv and quiet place to study if he wanted. Pete was pretty easy about letting Patrick stay late to work on homework or whatever. Even after months now of his Pete minding, Patrick still couldn’t figure out his sleep schedule or work schedule really. One long night into working on his sound production files, he’d told Pete about how he loved music and just wanted to make it. He didn’t care if he didn’t fit the look, but he just wanted the music to make sense.

Pete had looked at him and just leaned in like he was trying to stare him down. They were so close that their noses brushed. Patrick had felt something like warmth spread out hot and sticky slow in his belly, but then Pete pulled back and ruffled Patrick’s hair. He tossed a blanket on him and told him to sleep off his artistic sensibilities.

Days later, Patrick still doesn’t know why he handed Pete a burnt copy over of his final. “Just don’t. I don’t know. Don’t laugh, okay? It’s rough. Lots of found sounds and samples. And me singing. Just… whatever. I’m going to go.” He’d spent the day sorting Pete’s hoodies and shoes and cycling out the fall wear ones for the winter ones.

Pete hadn’t said anything to him later and just asked Patrick if he wanted Thai food and offered to get everyone of Patrick’s favorites.

Patrick didn’t know if that was a consolation or congratulatory prize. With Pete smiling at him like that, Patrick didn’t seem to mind either way for some reason. He felt that should be odd, but somehow it didn’t.

oOoOo

> Hanging out with Gerard wasn’t that much of a trial. The trip back to his place after that really weird afternoon with Donna Way had been not surprisingly quiet, but it was a sad quiet. Frank had kept shooting Gerard these looks wanting to ask what the hell it had been all about. Gerard had just looked out the window and noted that the days were getting darker faster and the cold was getting even sharper, angrier with the promise of wet harsh rain.
> 
> The days that followed were spent trying to track down the names that Gerard had translated from his own language into English or an English that Frank could understand. Gerard still wondered a little a bit at the internet and took to it hesitantly. He had muttered something about being around so much technology. Frank wasn’t sure how the magic worked but he could always tell when things were making Gerard twitchy. He touched the hilt of his dagger like a worry stone.
> 
> The diner was empty of most people and Frank knew that Gerard had found whoever they’d been looking for. Frank didn’t turn around so obviously to earn any weird looks back, but he just shifted in his seat to dart a look at the guy through the swinging door and part of the opening for the kitchen. All Frank could really see was a cloud of big ass hair sort of held back with a hairnet. Gerard’s hand was back in his pocket, thumb rubbing over the end of the dagger. He’d seemed despondent and tired after the meeting with Donna and then later when a search for Gerard someone called Otter turned up a name that led to the obituaries. His face had drawn together in tight lines and Frank had lost Gerard for the night into the bathroom. Frank found Gerard in the morning with candles burnt low around the edges of the tub and the water clear and a bright blue. Frank hadn’t known what to do other than get to work finding the other names on the list and covering Gerard with a blanket.
> 
> Finding Ray Toro had seemed to lighten not only Gerard’s expression but put some much needed lift back into Gerard’s purpose.
> 
> Frank was starting to wonder what the hell was keeping sticking with Gerard. He could admit to himself that the story was making more and more sense the longer he sat with it. It didn’t make it any more extraordinary, but it seemed to just fit. The magic working went far in helping him believe, but it was the quiet sadness Gerard had when he talked about what the Afterever was doing to his home, taking his parents and his friends, and his memories. Frank tried to explain the Neverending Story to Gerard and Gerard had nodded. It seemed that Hollywood got some things right.
> 
> Sitting here waiting for Gerard to make a move to talk to this Ray guy just seemed normal now. They’d gone to the gravesites of Otter and of Mikey. Gerard had seemed subdued but when he put his hand in the earth, Gerard seemed to settle. Frank couldn’t understand the words but he understood the intent. He knew a prayer when he heard one.
> 
> Gerard hadn’t even questioned him when Frank had crossed himself and kissed his thumb. He hadn’t worn a cross in ten years, but the ritual couldn’t be shook from him.
> 
> “Sally said you wanted to talk to me?”
> 
> Frank looked up and noted that Ray wasn’t as tall as he thought he’d be. He was taller than Frank, but that wasn’t saying much as most people were, but there was something solid about Ray. The smile and the easy way that Ray sat with them made Frank like him. Ray had scars on his hands and fingertips. “Hi. I’m Frank. This is Gerard. He…”
> 
> “Have you been having dreams lately?” Gerard asked looking not at Ray’s face but at his hands.
> 
> Ray sucked in a sharp breath and if Frank hadn’t been sitting so close he wouldn’t have seen the way Ray’s jaw tightened then loosened. “You been talking to my shrink?”
> 
> “No,” Gerard said softly his eyes not leaving the faint pink diagonal cut from wrist bone to forearm on Ray’s skin.
> 
> Ray tipped his head forward, pulling the hairnet off. “Well, good. Hate to have to call you a liar. I don’t have a shrink.”
> 
> Frank reached over to touch the scar on Ray’s arm, not knowing really why he was doing it, but felt the need to do it. “Sorry. Weird first time touching meeting thing,” he said but didn’t move his fingertips.
> 
> Ray watched the slow drag and looked at Frank. “Don’t know. I’ve always had it.”
> 
> Gerard seemed to come to attention. “The dreams.”
> 
> Both Ray and Frank seemed to flinch at that.
> 
> “They come every night. Never during the day. Swallowing you down and you wake in the dark and terrified wondering if you’re breathing in nothingness,” Gerard kept on still not looking higher than Ray’s arm and Frank’s fingers.
> 
> Ray whimpered and he looked as if he wanted to move back, away from them. “Y-yes. I wake up sweating, sometimes pissing myself I’m so scared. I haven’t. Never slept well at night. I work all the night shifts and sleep during the day now. It helps.” He says licking his lips. “But, but now.”
> 
> “Now the dreams get you while you wake,” Gerard finished finally looking up at Ray. “You lose time and can’t feel as if you can’t find your way out of your own mind.”
> 
> Ray looked as if he were on the verge of tears and Frank’s hand tightened on Ray’s wrist. “Yes. Fuck, yes. Are you. You too?” There was almost something like hope in Ray’s voice.
> 
> “Since I learned how to scream I have had the dreams. They’ve gotten worse. Water helps. Fire too.” Gerard said now reaching out to touch Ray’s arm. “Be at ease. We’ve found you now, my friend.”
> 
> Ray slumped down as if the strings that had been holding him up had been cut. “Oh Jesus,” he whispered and pulled Gerard in for a hug.
> 
> The only one surprised at the table at that had been Frank. 
> 
> oOoOo

**Author's Note:**

>  **eta:** ugh. i fail so hard. i want to thank [](http://schuyler.livejournal.com/profile)[**schuyler**](http://schuyler.livejournal.com/) & [](http://lovelypoet.livejournal.com/profile)[**lovelypoet**](http://lovelypoet.livejournal.com/) for the handholding. i want to super duper thank [](http://siryn99.livejournal.com/profile)[**siryn99**](http://siryn99.livejournal.com/) for the quick and dirty beta (all the rest of the mistakes are mine alone). and loads and loads of magical sleepy cuddle thanks to [](http://thelionforreal.livejournal.com/profile)[**thelionforreal**](http://thelionforreal.livejournal.com/) for the handholding, the dealing with my woe and angst and the putting up with me during this entire thing.


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